


Une Immense Espérance a Traversé ma Peur

by drugdog



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Lung Cancer, M/M, sort of like tfios but gay and written better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:39:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2032221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drugdog/pseuds/drugdog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Babe’d been losing sleep since Gene’d told him the previous week. Gene looked worse than him, as if he were wasting away from the inside. Babe supposed that was what cancer was, a wasting sickness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Une Immense Espérance a Traversé ma Peur

**Author's Note:**

> written for a friend on tumblr. it's the longest thing i've written in a while, so i figured, "i'm gonna put this up."  
> title comes from hunger of the pine by alt-j.

Gene didn’t tell him, but Babe noticed, the way he started to withdraw from him. He seemed afraid to touch him. He didn’t join him on the balcony so they could smoke together.

"Why the fuck," Babe said over dinner, blunt as he’d always been, "are you treatin’ me like I done somethin’ bad?" He didn’t outright say, you’ve been making me think I’ve been doing something bad and that’s nervewracking, but Gene knew him well enough for the message to get across.

Gene set down his fork. He looked over at him with something Babe didn’t recognize in his eyes.  
  
There was only a flash of it, because in the next moment, he was coughing. Babe was up just as quick, at his side, with one hand on his shoulder and the other on his back, patting him to help it pass. Gene gripped the table, one of his hands against his mouth.  
  
He hadn’t been mad, really, he was just scared. He’d always been something of a nervous type, read into things too quick. Gene was sick, that was all, and he’d reacted too quickly. _God. Pneumonia or somethin’, like Lip had during the war._ He’d get better than things would go back to normal.  
  
"Babe," Gene said, pulling him from his thoughts. There was something dark on Gene’s pale fingers, and it didn’t register it was a gob of blood until another cough wracked Gene’s body and another small string of it appeared on his lower lip.  
  
"Babe," Gene repeated, twisting around to look him in the eye.  
  
"This ain’t pneumonia, is it?" Babe asked quietly, shifting his weight. He was sick to his stomach.  
  
Gene sighed and ran the fingers of his clean hand through his hair. “It’s cancer.”  
  
/  
  
"Please," Gene said, voice strained. He had followed Babe to the door to the balcony, breaking the tradition of Babe going for a morning smoke, Gene waking up, and them making breakfast together before work. "Please, stop."  
  
"Stop what?" Babe asked. Gene set his hand on his forearm. Babe’d been losing sleep since Gene’d told him the previous week. Gene looked worse than him, as if he were wasting away from the inside. Babe supposed that was what cancer was, a wasting sickness.  
  
Gene looked up at him as if he could will him to put the pack down. “Those things. Those kill.” Gene gestured at the pack of cigarettes. “Those things are killin’ me.” His last sentence was quiet, faltering, and Babe regretted asking, because somewhere, he’d known what Gene was telling him right off the bat.  
  
"That ain’t been proved yet," he responded, almost as soon as the words were out of Gene’s mouth. Then, when Gene gave him a withering look, he changed the subject.  
  
"How long have," he said, gesturing helplessly at nothing, "about this? How long have you known?" Babe’s mouth had gone dry and he’d hardly woken ten minutes ago.  
  
"Six months," Gene said. Babe had always been glad that Gene was honest with him, really, he was, but he didn’t want the truth. He wanted him to lie that he wasn’t dying so he could have a smoke in peace and not vomit over the side of the balcony.  
  
"Why didn’t you tell me?" Babe asked, regretting how his voice came out. It had an almost childish whine to it, but Gene was talking again before he could dismiss it as his voice cracking.  
  
"I wasn’t sure."  
  
Babe looked at Gene, took in how he’d changed. His eyes were heavy with dark bags, stark against his skin, and his cheekbones had hollowed out past the point of normalcy. His whole body was thinner, too. And here Babe’d thought they just needed to visit Gene’s family for some good old fashioned Cajun cooking.  
  
"And now?" Babe said, trying to keep any semblance of hope from bleeding into his voice. The way Gene looked at him, though, told Babe that some had.

"I am. I know what it is."  
  
Babe ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “I’ll throw them away. Gene, I’m-“  
  
Gene hugged him then, before he could get out a ‘sorry,’ and Babe tried to ignore how skeletal Gene’s hands felt pressed between his shoulder blades. He instead focused on Gene initiating contact for once, which he had always left to Babe.  
  
Gene sighed against his chest, burying his nose in Babe’s shirt, and Babe found it hard to hug him back.  
  
/  
  
Babe knew he shouldn’t have gone out to the bar, but hell, he was stressed enough in the first place. He’d been glad to see Bill and Joe there, sitting in a booth opposite each other. He’d slid in beside Bill, ordered a beer off a passing waitress, and filled them in.  
  
Bill and Joe, being the men they were, took it in stride. Bill took a long drink and Joe looked off somewhere when Babe finished his story. He doubted either of them wanted to look at him. He knew he looked like shit. Hell, a sorry excuse for shit.  
  
Bill whistled, slamming his mug on the table too loudly. “Cancer, huh?” he said, giving a pointed glance at the pack in his breast pocket. “Gene, of all the boys. He’s a damn good guy.”  
  
Babe didn’t bother reminding Bill that they were together for the millionth time. Bill knew. He just liked to ignore it.  
  
And, in exchange, Babe ignored the pining looks Joe and Bill gave each other when they thought no one was looking, not even the other.  
  
They had all seen death in their lives. They all knew better than to say, “I’m sorry,” because those two words had lost meaning long before they came home. They lost meaning in places like Bastogne, when they laid awake at night and realized just how much a bullshit condolence it was.  
  
"That’s rough, brother," Joe cut in. He’d been silent the whole while, taking it all in in the same way he always did, silent and tight-lipped. He looked at him underneath hooded eyelids with his head inclined slightly. "But you know where to find us when you need somethin’."  
  
"Yeah," was all Babe managed, and then he was stumbling onto the street, knees weak, breathing hard. He threw up the lunch and the beer he’d had onto the dark sidewalk.  
  
Telltale thump-thumping followed him out of the bar, and Babe stayed where he was, looking at the mess he’d made, trying to even out his ragged breathing.  
  
Bill set his crutches to the side and got down beside him, putting a hand on his back. Babe tried not to think about Gene hugging him, and how different their touches felt.  
  
"Babe," Bill said, voice rough. "I’ll get you some water. And Joe, get him a taxi."  
  
/  
  
"Kiss me," he said when he walked in the door, not sure if he could pass for drunk but not caring. "Kiss me, Eugene Roe."  
  
Gene got up off the couch and came to him. Babe did the kissing before Gene could ask him where he’d been or what he’d been doing, pushing him back until the back of Gene’s knees hit the couch.  
  
That, he thought, ruled out prostitution. He was sure Gene could piece together the rest.  
  
He was riled like a teenager, and boy, how he wanted to be one, so he wouldn’t have to worry about anything but high school and whose number he was going to get.  
  
"Babe," Gene whispered when he leaned down to nip at his neck. He pressed one of his hands to his chest, but he didn’t force him away. "Babe."  
  
Babe shoved Gene onto the couch, just as rough as he always had, because he didn’t want to think about treating him daintily. Gene pulled him on top of him by the lapels of his collar, bringing him back up for a kiss, his blunt fingernails digging in at the base of his neck with equal roughness. Their teeth clicked together and Babe didn’t care, he didn’t fucking care, he just wanted Gene.  
  
He let his mind go.  
  
/  
  
"We are just so happy to see you," Gene’s mother said, setting a bowl of steaming gumbo in front of him. "It’s been so long since Gene stopped by… What’ve you boys been up to?"  
  
"Work, ma," Gene said, digging into his bowl like it was nothing. He hadn’t been eating much up in Philly and Babe was surprised to see him packing it away.  
  
He, on the other hand, was reluctant to take his first bite. As good as it was, the stuff burned like hellfire and the Roes didn’t believe in milk to wash their meals down. And hell, Gene was paler than he was.  
  
"It’s busy up there, ma’am," Babe gasped, tears stinging in his eyes. "Otherwise I would’ve dragged him down here earlier."  
  
"Oh, Babe," she said, a smile playing at her lips. Babe decided, after a moment and another forced mouthful of gumbo, it was a mixture of pity and affection. "Always such a sweetheart, you are." He had feeling she would be pinching his cheeks if she wasn’t on the other end of the table.  
  
"Babe always keeps me on my toes," Gene said, setting his bowl down with a quiet clatter. Babe eyed him with envy. He’d finished his food in less than five minutes, and he’d not even made a dent in the seemingly endless bowl. "Makes me go to work when I wanna play hooky," he added, with a small smile in her direction.  
  
Babe could see where Gene got his smile from when his mother did again.  
  
"Oh, those honest Philly boys always do. You oughta take a few lessons from him, Eugene Roe!" she said. "Do you want another bowl, cher?"  
Babe was too busy tucking into his bowl to hide his embarrassment to hear what Gene said.  
  
/  
  
Gene came into the guest bedroom with a hollow look in his eyes. Babe heard badly stifled sobs somewhere else in the house.  
  
"She knows," Gene mumbled, ignoring the second guest bed to squeeze in beside him. Babe threw his arm over Gene’s shoulder.  
  
"How she take it?" Babe asked, even though he knew. He just didn’t want to say he was sorry, because that seemed to be the only other option.  
  
Gene gestured in the direction of the door. “Take a listen for yourself. She asked me if there was anything we could do.”  
  
"And?" Babe prompted, rolling onto his side. Gene tucked his head into the juncture of Babe’s shoulder and neck, clinging to his shirt.  
  
"I told her no, there was nothing we can do." Gene said, his voice rough as Bill’s had been a month ago.  
  
"Didn’t tell her that I’ll just be wastin’ away." His voice broke then, and Babe grabbed onto him tighter, breathing him in.  
  
"It’s okay," Babe said, even though it wasn’t. Gene was dying. "It’s okay."  
  
Gene began to cry, softly, into his shirt, and Babe let him with mumbled assurances and periodical pats on the back.  
  
It was the first time he’d seen Gene cry, and Babe had a sinking feeling it would be the last, too.  
  
/  
  
"You boys come back down soon, you hear?" Gene’s mother said. A friend of the family was taking them down to the train station and was supposed to get there any minute. There were tears in her eyes and, underneath those, bags. Babe pretended not to notice when he hugged her.  
  
The air was sticky and warm on the front porch, and Babe felt too much that it was suffocating. He wondered, briefly, how hard it was for Gene to breathe.  
  
Babe watched her hug Gene, harder than he ever had in the times he’d accompanied him down to Louisiana. She whispered something in his ear and Gene nodded, giving her a tight smile when she pulled away.  
  
Someone honked from the gravel drive outside the house. Babe picked up their bags and stuffed them into the back before slipping in opposite Gene.  
  
He waved out the window at her with Gene until she was nothing more than a speck on the horizon.  
  
/  
  
Babe kept his hand on Gene’s back while he emptied his stomach into the train’s toilet, rubbing in circles. He couldn’t deny the sick feeling he had in the pit of his stomach, and the anxiety was almost palpable in the room.  
  
Gene rose on shaking legs and tottered to the sink, turning on the tap and drinking from it.  
  
The rest of the train ride was filled with Gene coughing into a handkerchief and sleeping on his shoulder.  
  
/  
  
Babe woke up a few nights later to the sound of the sink running. He rolled out of bed, almost literally, and padded into the bathroom, the sound of his feet a whisper on the tile.  
  
Gene was washing his hands, the water steaming, and muttering something under his breath. They were red and raw and Babe thought he caught a hint of blood on cracked palms.  
  
He shut off the tap and pulled Gene away, blocking him from the sink. “Gene, stop, please,” he whispered. “Please.”  
  
Gene looked at him as if he were a stranger and Babe felt his heart wilt. “The blood,” he replied, looking at his hands.  
  
Babe took them in his own, wiping it away before Gene saw. “It ain’t there, Gene. No blood. Let’s go back to bed.”  
  
The strange look in Gene’s eyes didn’t fade. Babe felt sick. “It’s Babe Heffron, Gene. We met during the war and we been living together for two years.”  
  
There was a flash of recognition in Gene’s eyes, and then he was hugging him, letting out a muffled sound of pain when his raw palms scraped against the cotton of Babe’s t-shirt.  
  
"Babe," Gene said, "I’m sorry."  
  
/  
  
His mother stopped by with a picnic basket of food and a hug. “Oh, baby,” she said, setting the basket down inside. “Bill told me about Gene. I was beginnin’ to wonder why you weren’t stopping by.”  
  
Babe was grateful that Gene was sleeping, even if he had been doing that, eating, and coughing up assorted things for the past weeks. He didn’t want him to hear his mother’s concerns.  
  
Babe watched her unpack food from it and put them into assorted cabinets. “It’s okay,” he said, “we’re doing the best we can.” _I’m doing the best I can,_ he tacked on in his mind.  
  
"You gone to the doctor yet? I heard there’s some new treatment out for those sorts of things."  
  
"Well, yes, ma’am. But that’s still experimental, and, well, Gene’s too far down the line for it to do much but make him…" he waved his hands, "to help things go faster."  
  
"You mean to say, young man, that Gene-"  
  
"Yes, ma’am." Normally, his mother would’ve pinched him and reprimanded him for interrupting her when she was talking. Instead, she crossed the  
kitchen ahd hugged him tight. Babe had been doing a lot of hugging as of late, and while he had never been a physical contact loving man, unless it was in a bed- or a couch- with Gene, he couldn’t deny the comfort it gave him.  
  
"God bless you," she said. "Can I see him?"  
  
"Of course," he responded. "He’s sleepin’, though, so if you wanna come back later-"  
  
"No," she said, and let Babe guide her to the bedroom.  
  
Babe thanked God that Gene was still sleeping. He knew he wouldn’t have said anything about how his mother had been talking, that wasn’t in his nature, but he would be thinking about it.  
  
"Oh, he looks downright awful," she said, clicking her tongue. "That poor boy." Before he could stop her, she was crossing the room, bending down, and planting a kiss on his forehead.  
  
"You take good care of him, Babe, or I’ll end up comin’ down here every day to do it for you."  
  
"Yes, ma’am."  
  
/  
  
Gene could no longer get out of bed somewhere past the year mark. Babe was at his side day and night. He’d begged his boss for extended, unpaid leave for a family emergency only minutes after he saw Gene fall flat on his face when he tried to get up.  
  
And then, weeks later, he did nothing but sleep and wake up to smile weakly at him. He couldn’t keep down anything but water and crackers, and Babe knew his time would be up sooner than later.  
  
/  
  
Gene was light in his arms. He remembered, way back when they’d first gotten the apartment together, there was actually some weight when he picked him up and took him over the threshold.  
  
He’d smiled, then, too, the both of them had, smiled and laughed, because there were still things to smile and laugh about.  
  
“You,” Babe said, pushing out of the front door, “are gettin’ yourself some fresh air. It just ain’t healthy to stay shut up in that damn room like you do.”  
  
Gene just clung to his arms and looked down the floors. Babe walked to the elevator and pressed the button that would lead them to the streets. The ride down was awkward, dim, and rickety.  
  
Babe ignored the looks he got when he stepped out. They didn’t know the first thing about what was going on.  
  
“Where do you wanna go, Gene?” he asked, moving to the side and leaning against the bricks. He didn’t want to look down at him, because he knew he would see him in a dirty t-shirt that used to fit him well and jeans that hung low, too low, on bony hips.  
  
“The park,” Gene said. Babe nodded and made his way down the sidewalk. He could go down four blocks to see his ma and the little ones, but he had a feeling he’d just get pitying looks, and pity was the last thing he wanted.  
  
“What season is it?” Gene asked when they were almost halfway there.  
  
“Can’t you tell?” Babe countered. His shirt stuck to him in the muggy July heat. “It’s summer,” he said.  
  
“Huh, summer’s a good time to…” he trailed off, and Babe thought, to die, but Gene said, “to get ice cream. I don’t even remember how that tastes.”  
  
“We’ll get some after, yeah?” Babe said, turning off the sidewalk into the green grass of a park. They wouldn’t, really, Gene would probably start breathing funny and there would be no time. Besides, if he ate it, chances were it’d be in the toilet by the hour. “You wanna sit on the swings or somethin’?”  
  
“Take me up to that hill, Babe.” Gene said, and coughed weakly. Babe strode with purpose. He’d make the most out of their trip, he would.  
  
It was hotter up there, but he wasn’t uncomfortable yet, not if Gene wasn’t. Babe thought back to going up on the hill during his childhood, playing with his siblings, and whining when the heat became too much. He realized he didn’t care much about himself anymore, he didn’t give a shit about his own wants and needs.  
  
 _Will it change when Gene-_  
  
“Can you set me down in the grass, Babe? Don’t really remember what it feels like,” Gene said, his voice a ragged whisper. Babe knelt and laid him down, sitting down beside him.  
  
Gene was running his fingers through the grass. “We ain’t done nothin’ like this before, have we?”  
  
Babe was embarrassed to realize they hadn’t. It’d been the war, some pining when they were states apart, and then Gene was moving in with him. There wasn’t much time for romance, not when they were trying to pay rent, but they had their little domestic moments. Babe’s throat became tight and he wished there could’ve been more of them.  
  
Gene’s hand sought out Babe’s, and he tangled his fingers with his. “Stop,” Gene said, almost as if he was reading his mind. He supposed it had always been obvious when he was upset. Gene had been the only one to give a shit about it, though. “Don’t blame yourself.”  
  
“It’s just not fair,” Babe replied, and was mortified to hear that damn childish whine in his tone again. He wanted to be strong, strong as he’d heard Bill was when his brother died. _That God would take someone who’s done nothin’ but help folks since the day he was fuckin’ born,_ he thought, remembering a conversation he’d had with Gene about his grandmother and healing hands.  
  
“I thought you knew that, Babe,” Gene said. “There ain’t nothin’ that’s fair.” He squeezed his hand.  
  
/  
  
Babe sat in a chair beside the bed, holding Gene’s hand in his own.  
  
"You remember how awkward I was, Gene, during the war?" he asked, offering a small smile. Gene reached up to touch his face, but it was barely there, and the smile he returned was faltering.  
  
With every breath, Babe could hear a harsh sound, and he prepared to get a bowl for Gene to spit in. Blood or mucus, he didn’t know anymore, it was all dark and sticky and made Babe feel increasingly empty.  
  
"I’m afraid I don’t remember much, cher," Gene wheezed, his hand falling to his side.  
  
 _Fuck,_ Babe thought, _fuck, this is it._  
  
"Well, I was real awkward. A damn stutterin’ mess, I was," he said. He was trying to think of something to make Gene happy, but he knew he was failing.  
  
Gene laughed, and then he coughed, wracking his thin body in a way that made tears prick at the corner of Babe’s eyes. Babe let go of him to grab a bowl, holding it underneath Gene’s chin.  
  
Gene spit up blood, his hand reaching out to find Babe’s again. He leaned back and Babe set the bowl on the nightstand, gripping Gene’s hand tight.  
  
"I love you," Babe whispered, and fuck, it was so goddamn cheesy, but he didn’t care, Gene was dying.  
  
He leaned in to kiss him. Gene returned it weakly, wrapping an arm around his neck. Babe could feel his breaths getting shallower, shallower, and his chest went tight. He blinked away tears and broke away.  
  
"I love you, too," Gene whispered. He put a surprising amount of strength into their linked hands, but it got weaker by the second.  
  
Babe wanted to run out of the apartment, run to the hospital and beg them to do something, anything, but they had already gone those months ago,  
when Babe threw away his last pack of cigarettes, and had been told that there was nothing to do but let him get comfortable to die.  
  
"Stay with me, Gene," he said, refusing to let his voice break. He had to be happy, or Gene would die seeing him cry. "You’re gonna make it through this."  
  
"I love you," Gene said again, leaning further away from him, further into his pillow. Babe pulled him into a hug and held him.  
  
Slowly, Gene’s hands on him became weaker until they fell to the bed again. He went limp like a ragdoll in Babe’s arms, and he set his head against  
Gene’s chest.  
  
There was nothing.  
  
Then, he let himself cry, holding Gene close and praying that his breaths were too shallow to feel, that Gene would start up again, good as new, and he could go out with him and spend the day wasting money in town.  
  
/  
  
Bill was smoking when he answered his door, and his eyebrows raised in surprise when he saw Babe’s face, tracked with tears, his hair mussed. They were nearly in his hairline when Babe smacked the cigarette from his mouth with a growl and fell into his arms.  
  
"Please," he gritted out between sobs. "Please stop smoking, Bill."  
  
Bill pulled him inside his apartment, patting him on the back. There were a few thumps and Joe was in the hallway, a mug of something steaming in his hands, looking surprised instead of tired for once.  
  
“He’s dead. Gene’s fucking dead and I… I can’t go back t-there,” Babe said. He wanted to stop crying. Bill’d never seen him so weak, not even when Julian died.  
  
“I’ll stop, Babe, I promise.”


End file.
